Carillons

Covered in painted patterns and with wings of old, lacy fabric, the clockwork Fae blinks his wide, emotionless, glass eyes. Astonishingly lifelike, isn't he? She was one of a pair, alongside her sister, crafted by Rhamantus, the tinker of the Troupe of Lucid Dreams. The pair were made as souvenirs for those who visited the booth of Ophelia, the dancing clockwork doll, at the annual Trickmurk Circus celebration.

---

She remembered being born. The feeling of drowning and that first gurgling, half-breath before the paralysis set. Her arms were dead weight at her sides. Her fingers refused to even twitch. Her chest was still, creaking as she struggled and flung herself against the inert cold that made up her limbs. For a moment- a second or a lifetime, she couldn’t be sure- panic swelled. It bubbled along the tendrils of her flickering awareness and seeped into the burning ley lines of her body. She blinked then, awareness smothering her like a blanket. She didn’t need to breathe. She never had. That was foolish. Why would she ever have believed otherwise? Where had that reflex even come from? A gentle click drifted over to her and she realized she was not alone. Had never been alone.

A well of almost-contentment swelled in her soul as the ancient dragon slowly came into focus- a warm sense of familiarity. She knew this dragon. She liked this dragon's voice: the cadence as it spoke around but never to her. And, if she would sit still and be good, this dragon would love like her, too. This dragon would smile at her, and all would be well.

So she sat still as the dragon arranged herand her siblings the other dolls. She didn't dare to move as those sharp claws delicately tilted her face and searched for something (defiance perhaps? life, she'd thought traitorously before shoving away thoughts altogether. The dragon had been pleased at what he had not found and that was enough) and the tickle-brush of paint swirled around her face. She knew better than to disturb the dragon's work; from where she sat she could almost still see the imperfect models that had been dashed against the floor when they'd ruined the dragon's work, the smell of oil and wet paint and disappointment still thick in the air.

She sat on that shelf for an eternity, but she did not see Rhamantus once the paint had dried and the scratch-itch fabric had been wrapped around her frame. Even when the visitors came and poked at her and the other dolls, the ancient dragon was nothing more than a low rumble just out of sight. She heard that voice constantly. When she was tense-awake and frozen-sleeping. It was impossible to escape , that booming laugh and the quiet chitter of his scorn, but it was not the same. It would never be the same.

Hatchlings came and cooed over the lace of her wings. They poked at the joints in her limbs, wound the key in her back. The peals of laughter as she danced away in jerky, disjointed movements lingered in the air even as they were ushered out with a sharp tone or a parental glare.

Of all the creatures that came to visit, there was one hatchling that kept returning. She noticed only because she'd been looking; dreading each tiny paw that carelessly plucked her from the shelf. But the hatchling was quiet. Didn’t try to touch the delicate membrane of his wings. Didn’t wind the key and make him dance. The hatchling just sat. And watched, his head tilted to one side and the other as if trying to catch the faintest sound. As if she could almost hear the music, too.

The joints in his frame creaked as his shelf was jostled, tiny sharp-tipped claws coiled over the edge of the shelf. For a long moment she wobbled, nearly toppling over before she stilled. The hatchling was looking at her- really looking at her- as if he could see her. He shifted, enough to catch the frown pointed in her direction focused on the hatchling that had reared up and not at her. Until those cold, dead eyes fixed her in a paralyzing glare and all she could think of were those broken dolls that never made it to the shelves..

There was the swelling sound of music- bright, staccato little notes that wove around his awareness like a noose. The world faded, the edges of his vision growing dark. She was drowning again, struggling for a breath she couldn’t take didn’t need.

The nocturne drew nearer, looming; filling his vision with a disappointed frown. His soul s̷̩̟̀h̷̫̎͜i̸̟̻͛v̵̞̑̀ê̶̥̿r̶͉͆e̴͍̻͒ḋ̴̫, grew colder, and the ̴̡̣͖́̒̒c̶̡̾͛ö̶̟̭́n̶̠͌n̵̮̬͇̾̃̅e̵̻͆̓̌͝c̴̜͇̗̹͂̎̊t̵̹̱̮͒͛͒i̶̯̙͉͛͝ȯ̵̱̰͚̆͊ͅn̵̗̦̣͋͌̈͑ to the ley lines w̵̡̡̨̞̲̤͔͈̟̙͉̹͍̗̘͊̇̐͐̕ą̵̞͎͍͔̥̫̤́͒̍͆̽̎̅̒͜v̵̦͐͛̓ė̵̦͚̑̒͋̈̀̈́̈́̓̈͒͑̑͗͝r̸͕̗͚̤̜̼̞̻̰̼̹̟̮̦̃é̶̡̨̜̘̙͓͉̝̹͍̺̱̮̘́̿́̌̕ͅď̵͖̹̰̑̐̔̃͊̓̓͛͜.

All the while the music grew louder.

ǐ̶̧̮̩͖̪͕̜͇̼̭̲͖̲̝̺̲̫̟̤̔̾͋̑̊̑̀͋́̈́̀̎͐̔̚͜͝In̵̡̢̧̧̢̡̢̟̦̺̣̣̞̣̱͕͖͍̰̱̱̠̪̦̖̥̣̙͑̓̾̔̾̄͋͋̾͑̍͛̉̑͗̚͝͠ͅs̴͙̥͒̕͠ĭ̷̡̨̧̞̗̙̝͔̬̪̹̰̟͓̼̖̠̝̩̦̖̖̱̋̂̅́͊̔̀͌̿̉̈́̀̚͜ͅs̴̨̢̨̧̡̛͎͙̩͉̺̥̬͇̭͇̝̯͇̥̹͚̯̹̱̟̬̲̪̼͗͐̓̀͂̑̔̏̉̋̾͂̀̏̊̚̕͝ͅt̵̡͔̩͓̫͈͊̌͆͆̎͑̐̐̑̌̈̉̊̌̌̕̚͠͠ͅę̴̹͈̥͚̓̄͛̔̓̔͆̉͗̈́͆͑̇̓̕̕͘͝n̴̨̞̲̲̤̝̗̘̟̻̞̦̮̱̥̙̘̤͓̖̠̜̹͌̐̔̿̈́̔͝ţ̶̢̛͉̺̮̦͇͓̮̦̦͓̱͍̘̠͔̺͔͗̉̔͒̃̈́͒̄̂͛̌̂͊̉͒̉͗̋̇̈́̿̆̓̾̂͘͘̕͠͠.


“Wait!” The hatchling yelped. His claws dug into the wood, his wings half-splayed. Wide eyes were darting between the ancient dragon and the doll and a shiver ran down his spine. “I’ll t-take it.” He withered under the nocturne’s glare, but held firm.

“If you have the coin,” the nocturne began, each word sharp and pointed as a dagger, "you can take a souvenir."

The hatchling's ears flattened against his head, but he held out a handful of shiny coins. They clinked as his paw shook, but he only flinched slightly when the nocturne swooped in close, expression snapping back into a facsimile of cheer at the sight of gold.

The Nocturne palmed the coin with a gnarled, mechanical smile before passing over the last of his souvenirs.

"Think of yourself as lucky for purchasing the last of my stock," he rasped, "I will make more next year. Please enjoy your new toy."

The hatchling didn't wait. As soon as the clockwork doll was in his grasp, he bolted. Still, he couldn't help but feel as though he was being watched. Unseen eyes staring through the dark. Music crackling like magic at his heels.